


Sylvan

by Schistosity



Series: Those Who Speak [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory spoilers, Character Study, Gen, If I could write all my cr fics about frumpkin I’d do it, basically how they both learned sylvan, broke: caleb learned sylvan for school, fantasy languages, woke: whatever the FUCK this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 19:13:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schistosity/pseuds/Schistosity
Summary: In which Caduceus and Caleb earn the favour of the fey (the long way and the short way)





	Sylvan

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Here’s another one of these little language fics because I had this 90% of the way written up and I have no patience! Enjoy!
> 
> While the individual languages of the M9 are interesting, the ones they share have the potential to be even more so. I really like exploring the different ways and reasons people learn languages, so voilá! This thing!

Caduceus stands outside Caleb’s door, one hand holding tea, the other raised to knock. He pauses.

_ “As iludë mar,” _ he hears Caleb say on the other side of the door. 

_ Be nicer to him, _Caleb has just said. Not in Common, not in Zemnian. No, he’s speaking the language of the Fey.

For a moment Caduceus thinks the wizard may be talking to himself, but then he hears a second voice — or rather, a small Frumpkin chirp — a disgruntled sound that translates into an almost whiny protest. 

Caleb tuts, like a parent to a child, which Caduceus is immensely amused by.

_ “He is allergic to you,” _ Caleb says, the language of the wild places dripping from his tongue with a musical quality. It is accentless. “ _ It is not kind to sleep on his things.” _

Caduceus can’t help smiling when he hears Frumpkin’s response, a little_ mrrp _ that means he has _ no idea what Caleb is talking about, truly. _

Caleb sighs and Caduceus thinks.

He had no idea Caleb spoke Sylvan, though it does make sense. His familiar is fey, after all, and while Caduceus doesn’t know much about arcana he does know that magical bonds grant strange benefits to both parties. 

Perhaps language?

Weird.

He’s aware he’s eavesdropping, even if it’s just between a man and his sometimes-cat. He knocks. To be polite.

“Come in,” Caleb says, his voice returning to its normal, accented Common. 

“Hey,” Caduceus says, stepping through the low doorway into Caleb’s room. It’s somehow both chaotic and meticulously organised — spell components and papers strewn about in piles that are messy in their construction, but almost eerily neat in their placement — an interesting echo of its owner. 

Caleb is sitting on the floor, clutching Frumpkin loosely in his lap. When Caduceus enters he stands, unceremoniously snapping the cat into his usual position on his shoulders as he does so.

“_ Hallo _, Caduceus,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

Caduceus holds up the cup of tea. “You weren’t at breakfast, I figured you might want to at least drink something.”

Caleb’s mouth becomes a tight line. He looks uncomfortable at being called out on his absence, but that doesn’t stop him from taking the cup.

“Thank you,” he says in that quiet voice of his. “You do not need to worry after me.” 

“Nah,” Caduceus drawls. “It’s good tea. It deserves someone to drink it.”

Caleb nods and slips into a silence that harkens the end of the conversation. Caduceus is just about through the door when he stops and turns.

“Sorry if this is a weird question, but how long have you spoken Sylvan?” 

Caleb’s eyes widen a little. “Oh. Uh…” 

Caduceus thinks Caleb is a strong man, one who has seen great horror and survived, but he also knows that doesn’t mean Caleb is a _ comfortable _man. He is skittish. Like the deer that used to live by the Grove. Caduceus feels that shift in him, like the unexpected question is causing him to keel.

He raises a calming hand. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says as softly as he can, wishing he could be more like Claudia; his aunt had always been so much better with the deer than he was.

He turns, and is stopped by Caleb’s soft voice almost immediately.

“Five years,” he says. “I was, uh… gifted it…”

Now _ that’s _ interesting.

Caduceus leans against the doorway. “Do you mind if I ask how?” 

“_ Ja _, uh,” Caleb closes his eyes for a second, as if remembering — or perhaps just trying to think of how to say it. 

“We were, uh, not allowed familiars when we were in training,” he says finally. “They were seen as extraneous… too soft, like, uh, something to tie us down… even though most mages use familiars as simple tools.” 

He meets Caduceus’s eyes for a small moment, before looking down at the cup. “After everything, about five years ago, I was in a dark place. Frumpkin was less of a _ spell _ and more of a bid for a companion. I did not need his eyes or ears I just…” he pauses again, longer this time, like it’s hard to speak. “I needed someone to talk to.”

Caduceus smiles, both at Caleb and the little tomcat on his shoulder, who is looking up at his wizard and blinking slowly. 

“I think he saw this too. He gave me knowledge of Sylvan as part of our deal. It is uncommon to do, because familiars can innately understand their masters, but it was so I could speak to him. It was an interesting experience — to suddenly know a language like–“ he snaps his fingers, “–instantly, you know?”

“I can imagine,” Caduceus says in his bemused tone. He can’t really, but that’s what people tend to say in situations like this.

“He had masters before me that were not kind,” Caleb continues, his voice gaining a bit of a hard edge. “Familiars are just little fey — or celestials or fiends — they cannot defend themselves much and… I think he wanted someone to talk too.” 

Then there is a comfortable pause in which Caleb reaches up to scritch Frumpkin’s head. The familiar purrs — a deep, contented rumble Caduceus can almost feel from where he stands.

“You speak Sylvan, yes?” Caleb says suddenly.

“_Tá,_” he says. _ Yes _.

Caleb gives a small smile, this one reaches his lips.

_ “Ye anwë mor vèn hau aunm?” _ He asks. _ Do you mind if I ask how you learned it? _

Caduceus smiles. 

“My family — we benefit from being able to communicate with people from all walks of life.”

Caleb quietly sips his tea, prompting Caduceus to continue. 

“I just chose an uncommon group of people to communicate with.”

* * *

The dryads sit on the edge of the grove, nestled amongst the trees and the newest graves. 

They do not speak the Common language of mortals, but the boy-who-is-Caduceus can understand them all the same; they speak the sparkling tongue of elves, and so does he. 

Caduceus sits beside his sister as she talks to the Uthodurnian family who are visiting their garden today. They are here to bury a child, and though the tones are rough and strong like fresh hewn stone, Caduceus can hear the grief in the Dwarvish that falls from their lips — and the sympathy that ebbs from his sister’s. 

He is only half listening while he pretends to whittle his new staff. The other half of him is watching the dryads.

They are watching him back, and he offers a covert wave. They’re hard to see if you’re not looking for them; they blend into the trees, and in the shadows they are nearly invisible. But Caduceus has a keen eye — that’s what his mother’s always told him. He sees many things. 

“Excuse me, may I go?” He asks softly, trying to find a lull in the conversation to insert his comment. “I think the dryads want to speak.” 

His sister’s eyes flicker from the dwarves to the Grove’s edge, and Caduceus can see how she struggles to see the fey women for a moment.

“Alright,” she says. “Don’t wander far, little one.” 

Caduceus is up in a flash, he wanders briskly to the edge of the Grove, where two dryads sit at the gates. One is sitting on the low branches of a tree, the sunlight filtering through her hair in the manner of leaves, the other sitting beneath her, sprouting poppies in a circle around her.

They both look _ miserable._

_ “Good morning_,” he greets in Elvish. _ “Are you okay?” _

_ “Mara!! Sian läne ola!” _ One of them _ wails, _the one in the tree, and she snaps her teary gaze down at him. Her eyes flicker with grief, and her voice flutters like reeds, like cattails in a stormy river.

“Uh…” Caduceus is taken aback. He doesn’t understand her. It’s not Elvish, but another language, one that sounds much wilder.

The other dryad, the one with poppies at her feet, stands. At her full height she is taller than Caduceus, but her sadness is making her look smaller.

_ “We are grieving, little clay,” _ she says, her voice soft like summer wind. _ “One of our sisters fell in the east wood.” _

_ “How?” _He asks, because this is rare.

_ “A violent mage.” _

_ “Can we bury her?” _He asks. That’s what he’s supposed to do, he thinks.

The dryad with poppies at her feet smiles. _ “We do not bury, little clay. We already belong to the earth, we do not need to be returned to it.” _

Caduceus thinks he maybe understands. He nods._ “Do you mourn, though? I can… help?” _

_ “Sian ae illün,” _ The dryad says in that same, wild language her sister is wailing in. “ _ You do not know our rites.” _

_ “Can… could you teach them to me?” _ He asks. _ “I’m supposed to help, right? Maybe I can help you.” _

_ “And why would you do that, little clay, when denizens of the Material come to mourn more frequently than we?” _

_ “Because the Mother provides for everyone. And you’re part of everyone.” _ He looks back to his sister, who has the dwarves mother’s hands clasped in her own. _ “You’re my friends.” _

The dryad hums, and the poppies entwine her ankles._ “The language you wish to learn Sylvan. It is the language of the Feywild.” _

Caduceus can’t hold back the expression of wonderment that breaks across his face. “Wow.”

_ “It will not be very useful, I fear.” _

_ “It’ll let me help you do your rites,” _ he says. _ “I think that’s pretty useful.” _

At that, the dryad in the tree slips from her perch and kneels before him, taking his face in her warm hands. They smell of patchouli and woodsmoke. _ “Little clay, you have a kind heart.” _

_ “I’m sorry about your sister,” _he says. The dryads smile. 

_ “Sian ae illün.” _

_ “What does that mean?” _

_ “To die is to continue,” _ says the poppy dryad. _ “It is what we say when others pass. Decay is the next step in life.” _

_ “I like that very much.” _

_ “I knew you would, little clay.” _

So Caduceus learns Sylvan from the women of the living forest. While his brothers and sisters learn dwarvish and Infernal and Gnomish, he studies with a dryad that wears poppies at her feet and in her hair.

_ This won’t be useful, _ his family will say, _ how many Fey are going to come to the grove to necessitate this? _

In the winter of his eightieth season, Caduceus is one of the last Clays at the temple. He sits at his window, and watches a dryad who wavers like stripped beech branches approaches the Grove. 

In her hands she carries a poppy. 

_ “The corruption?” _He asks. The fat tears that roll from the young fey’s cheeks are confirmation enough.

_ “Little clay,” _ she whispers, in the silvery tones of Sylvan. _ “She said she wanted to be here.” _

Caduceus takes the poppy in his hands, much larger than the dryad’s._ “We’ll look after her,” _he replies in the language they taught him. 

With one dryad in his wake and another in his cupped palms, he wanders to the back of the temple, where a wild garden grows in a shaft of winter sunlight. They root her there, in the sunshine, and the red of her wide petals is bright against the colours of the season like blood and berries and ruby. 

They whisper the rites together, Caduceus and the dryad who shakes like a trembling tree, and in the end he takes her hand in his. 

_ “Sian ae illün,” _ he says. 

_ “Sian ae illün,” _the dryad replies. 

She comes back to visit, as do others, and Caduceus always makes sure there’s tea for them. They have a place here, like him, like any mortal mourner. They are his friends, and he is theirs.

* * *

“It took a very long time,” Caduceus finishes. “But I learned from the best.”

“We are very different, Mr. Clay,” Caleb says with a wan smile. “In comparison to you my acquisition of Sylvan feels a bit like cheating.” 

“Nah,” Caduceus chuckles. “I think we’re quite similar.” 

Caleb cocks his head, questioning.

“You said before that you were gifted Sylvan. I think I was too, in a way. That counts for something with the fair folk; they don’t give gifts lightly.”

Caleb pets Frumpkin a little absently, giving Caduceus’s words some thought.

“I’ll be heading out,” Caduceus says, peeling off from his place in the doorway. He hasn’t moved through the whole story. “I can take your cup if you want me too.” 

Caleb looks down; he hadn’t even noticed he’d finished it. 

The two men exchange final pleasantries and then Caleb is alone in his room again. He watches the door click shut, and stares for a moment before turning to his cat.

“Do you truly think that highly of me, Frumpkin?” He asks.

The cat meows. A perfect non-answer. 

“Then perhaps you will stop sleeping in Fjord’s shoes, _ ja_?” 

The response he gets from Frumpkin is a _ very _ decisive no and a rude little curse. But that is okay, Caleb thinks, he’s still his friends.

* * *

It’s one of the darkest nights of the year, with both moons shrouded in shadow and the pitch of deep winter heavy in the sky, when the man-who-is-not-yet-Caleb-Widogast is given Sylvan. 

He had learned in his youth how to read the weather - never as well as his father, but close to it. What he reads now is a frigid night. Clear skies are well and good when they happen during the day, but clear nights provide no blanket to trap the heat of the sunlight hours. 

The man shivers in his tattered, stolen coat. 

He’d gathered the necessary components for _ Find Familiar _ five days ago, but the universe had decided it was also a good time for a days-long downpour, and he hadn’t had the time to cast it among is constant dashes from meager shelter to meager shelter. The rain had gone on more or less uninterrupted for four and a half days, and the man had been outside for the entire time. Now there’s a break, a clear sky - though there is a storm on the wind. He has time if he hurries. 

He’s kept the fragile incense between the pages of his new spellbook - a leatherbound number he’d pilfered from the first town outside of the asylum. It’s thick. The pages will keep the incense safe. They have to. 

The charcoal is less fragile. He’s kept it in a plethora of pockets - both inner and outer - even into the free space in his stolen, overlarge boots. 

The brazier was the hardest. In the end he’d stolen old brass pipes and spent hours meticulously melting them into something that could pass as a brazier. He’d driven himself to exhaustion during the endeavour. 

It takes an hour to summon his familiar, and it’s one of the longest hours of his life. His hands shake, harder and harder as he watches the clouds roll in. He has to concentrate on this spell more intently than most. He is not as steady as he once was, and this kind of magic does not come to him as easily has his fire. 

There is a tearing sound, and the smell of magic tinged with ozone and smoke. All his magic smells a little of smoke.

A meow. When the man looks up and blinks the sweat and new rain from his eyes, a little cat is sitting amongst the coals. It’s all he could bring himself to ask for.

He doesn’t even try to stop himself from crying.

_ “Hallo, meine katze.” _He extends a hand to pet its little head as it begins to rain.

This is his, _ truly _ his. It’s the first thing that’s belonged to him in eleven fucking years that hasn’t been stolen or borrowed. He’s allowing himself this small comfort. This small gift. This is _ his ._

_ “Ich werde dich Frumpkin nennen, ja?” _His voice is cracked and broken, but the deal means the fey can hear him no matter what.

The cat meows, soft and quivering, and the man pulls him closer into the folds of his coat as the rain begins to pour more heavily, quenching the hot charcoal still burning in the brazier. Frumpkin blinks at him. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s seeing something in him. 

And then he leans forward, pressing his little nose to the man’s shaking chest and-

He is _ filled _. 

He is filled with grammar and syntax and vocabulary. With articles and prepositions and conjunctions. With the taste of words so foreign and so familiar. With slang and dialect and curses and a dozen ways to say _ love _ and _ hate _ and _ arcana _ and _ bond. _He is filled with language. 

The language of the wild - the true wild. The wild that skirts the edges of the world’s deepest and most mysterious facets. The first of the two echo worlds, the Feywild, which clings to the Borders Material like sheer silk, like soft fingers, like glistening oil.

The inside of his mouth prickles, filled in an instant with the taste of raw honey and storms and iron. He inhales the sharp, wet air and expels it instantly, thrown into a fit of rough coughs as liquid magic runs from his mouth and eyes and nose. For an instant, he sees the curls of power radiating off the beast in his lap. In an instant it is gone. 

He wipes his face, pulling his fingers back coated in the shimmering, oil-like magic. It glitters like the night sky. It smells of springtime and blood. It tastes of the wild. 

And he Knows.

_ “Ae sidbaen bedb miré,” _The words are at once alien and native on his tongue. Sylvan, the language of the fey. 

Frumpkin begins to purr, pressing himself closer to the man’s chest.

The feeling of _ partnership _ rips its way through the man’s chest, through a soul bared by taxing magic. 

Tears fall from his eyes as his shaking hands come up to bury themselves in his familiar’s brand new fur. He whispers his thanks in a mixture of his own language and the language of his familiar, the new language. The gift. 

He has been given a great many things today - a friend, a language, comfort...

_ “Danke schon,” _ he croaks, his voice wet with tears, and his finger curls around the little cat’s ear. _ “Danke.” _

The fey purrs. The man understands.

**Author's Note:**

> Caduceus: [learns sylvan through years of study]  
Caleb: [learns sylvan by having one of the fey inject battery-flavoured magic go-gurt directly into his brain like the matrix]
> 
> find me on tumblr @fizzityuck to holler about all things!


End file.
